


put your money where your mouth is

by demotu



Series: put your money where your mouth is [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Chicago Blackhawks, Exhibitionism, Gay Chicken, Hickies, M/M, Marking, Public Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demotu/pseuds/demotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly, Pat isn't sure how they got here. He's had a lot to drink, and they've been engaged in about four hours of what was Mario Kart war but turned into an epic Smash Bros. tournament, and somewhere along the way bets that required badges of honour were made, except instead of badges of honour somebody—okay, probably Pat—decided they were to be badges of shame, and somebody—again, probably Pat—decided the winner got to mark the loser so everybody could heckle him until it faded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your money where your mouth is

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you guys know, this story was just called "hickies" for several weeks. I mentioned it offhand when it was less than 4000 words to [fourfreedoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_reaction/pseuds/fourfreedoms) and she was like "oh that sounds fun". And now it's over 9000 words. In between was some gnashing of teeth and wondering if this needed a plot, but no. It really didn't.
> 
> Thus, this is (a) 90% porn by volume and (b) completely ridiculous. Expect nothing more!

~

 

"Stop moving, fuckface."

"Your knee is digging into my thigh, asshole."

"If you stopped moving I wouldn't _have_ to—"

"Just fucking do it already."

"Holy shit guys, this is definitely the weirdest thing you have ever done."

That's Seabs, and Pat kind of has to agree. Pat’s seated on the couch; Jonny has one knee pressed into Pat's thigh, the other tucked behind Pat's ass, and a hand pushing against Pat's ear, forcing his head sideways. When Pat stops squirming to Jonny's satisfaction, Jonny tucks his face into Pat's neck and latches on, sucking hard.

"Fucking fuck you fucking—" Jonny's hand slides around and claps over Pat's mouth, holding firmly while he sucks the mother of all hickies into the sensitive skin just behind Pat’s jaw. Pat tries to bite the skin of Jonny's palm but can't really get anything, so he elbows Jonny in the stomach instead.

Jonny rears back, fixing Pat with a hard look and pulling his hand off Pat’s mouth. "You can't fight back."

"Says who?"

"Says the bet!" Jonny says, frowning. "I wouldn't. If you don't let me finish it won't show tomorrow."

"He has a point, Peeks," says Sharpy, all fake sympathy. "If you'd won instead it'd hardly be fair for Jonny to just throw you off."

"Like he could!"

Skeptical stares all around the room, the assholes. Pat hates them all.

"Then somebody fucking time it. You've got ten seconds to leave your mark and then I'm gonna elbow you in the balls instead."

Duncs lifts his wrist and starts a countdown, because somebody in this room actually listens to Pat. "Three, two, one, go—"

Honestly, Pat isn't sure how they got here. He's had a lot to drink, and they've been engaged in about four hours of what was Mario Kart war but turned into an epic Smash Bros. tournament, and somewhere along the way bets that required badges of honour were made, except instead of badges of honour somebody—okay, probably Pat—decided they were to be badges of shame, and _somebody_ —again, probably Pat—decided the winner got to mark the loser so everybody could heckle him until it faded.

And then he lost and now he's really fucking regretting that train of impeccable logic, because as embarrassing as the hickey will be in the locker room for the rest of the week, the boner that's trying to break free of his inebriation would be more than a little worse.

"—nine, ten!"

"Arghhhhh," Pat cries in mock agony, curling up in fake pain to hide his real erection. "Am I bleeding? I think I'm bleeding. You're a fucking—a fucking vampire, Tazer."

Jonny hits him over the head and collapses back into his corner of the couch, a smug—and nobody does smug like Tazer, sheesh—grin all over his face. "Like you aren't into it," he chirps.

 

~

 

The stupid, stupid thing is that Pat is totally into it. He was into it the first time when he didn't see it coming—the boner, not the hickey—drunk and pressed into his own couch. And if he'd thought that was a fluke, just him being horny (because being into Jonny for real has always seemed like a bad enough idea to keep any potential fantasies at bay), he was proven wrong the second time it happened, when half the team was around because they were on the road and he hadn't had a single drop of alcohol. That one was worse, because he'd been in loose sweats that did nothing to confine his very sober dick, and he'd had to switch to sitting on the floor for the rest of the night with his knees tucked up until everything had calmed down enough to head up to his room. And rub one out with his fingers pressing into the skin as if he could feel the red mark Jonny had left behind.

 

~

 

So it happens a few more times. Actually, it happens enough that they manage to develop a set of rules and regulations for it. It's not like they sit down and talk about it, but somehow they settle on three pretty well-defined rules:

(1) Only around the team, never alone. That one they definitely never talk about, but it never ever ever happens when they’re alone together, because, Pat figures, that would be too gay for Jonny and he really doesn’t want to know if Jonny's frankly saintly patience on the receiving end would hold up if nobody was there to heckle.

(Not that Pat has a problem with gay guys. Gay guys are _great_ , especially because they don’t tend to freak out when you offer to blow them. Which was exactly what Jonny did in rookie year, when Pat suggested a road trip bargain involving mutual blow jobs, or at least handies.

That’s how Pat knows Jonny doesn’t embrace Pat’s philosophy of “hot and available and willing” as the only essential criteria for partners in bed. Shame, because it had been a great thing he had going with Gags. After Pat had visited for the first time since being drafted, Gags even admitted that it had been a really brilliant idea and that it sucked (heh) that Pat was gone, even if he was sticking to the ninety percent straight thing.)

(2) If you want it to stop, you have to uncle out. Not like, literally, though Jonny definitely called it out after this one time Pat got this fucking awesome hickey going right along his jawbone. But you couldn't muscle out of it, because, as Pat explained to a really hammered Shawzy, that would make it uneven. In Jonny's favour, which Pat didn't add but Shawzy helpfully did. Fuck that kid, seriously.

(3) No randomly jumping the other guy. There has to be some sort of acknowledged wager lost for the loser to get hickied.

The fact that they actually have rules comes down to Jonny, because he’s the kind of competitive freak who needs fair play for games of gay chicken. That really isn’t so much gay chicken as like, making it clear to the team who'd lost the last round of whatever the fuck competition they had going on.

For example: Kaner is currently sitting in his stall, showered and dressed and grinning as widely as he can manage at Jonny.

“You ready for this shit?”

Jonny is glowering at him as best he can while he drags his boxers on, towel slung round his shoulders. Kaner owned his ass in the passing drill, and now Jonny’s gonna get it from him. A hickey, not like, _it_. Whatever. Pat gestures in front of himself.

“Here.”

“What,” Jonny says, unimpressed.

“I want good leverage, get down here.”

“Wow, I really do not need to hear this,” Seabs says loudly from across the room. “It’s going to give me nightmares.”

“Fuck off,” Pat and Jonny say in unison, but Jonny doesn’t budge.

Pat can’t really blame him. He is basically asking Jonny to kneel between his spread legs in front of the team, but Pat can’t help but push. It’s usually Sharpy finding and smashing all of Jonny’s buttons until he rage-quits on life or whatever, but Pat’s always understood the appeal. He roomed with the dude, he had to pull some punches or risk his life.

“If you wanna uncle out…”

“Asshole.”

And _holy god_ , Pat was not prepared for Jonny to follow through on it, to pull the towel off his damp shoulders and drop it on the floor between Pat’s feet and fucking _get down on his knees_. Jonny spreads his hands on Pat’s thighs to steady himself as he leans in, and Pat has to swallow hard to clear his throat.

The remaining guys in the room are absolutely howling, now. Pat is ninety percent sure this is being filmed, and he is a hundred percent praising Jesus that he put on his jeans before this. He’s sure he’s bright red. Jonny, the fucker, is smirking at him. His fingers twitch a little, pulling tight into Pat’s thighs before smoothing along the fabric of his jeans.

“You gonna get on with it sometime today, fuckface?”

Pat has _resolve_ , man, and Jonny’s assholery is only cementing it. He’s gonna give the jerk the most awesome hickey of his _life_ , and then Jonny is gonna thank him for it. Pat slides his fingers into Jonny’s hair—he’d swear Jonny's pupils dilate at that—and tugs Jonny’s head over to the side, exposing the shower-flushed skin of his neck to Pat’s mouth.

“No time limit, don’t forget,” he breathes into Jonny’s ear, satisfied with the way Jonny’s fingers tighten in response. “You’re done when I’m done.”

And then he fucking _goes to work._ Pat picks the spot right below Jonny’s earlobe, behind the jut of his jaw, and presses his mouth in a wide circle to the hot, smooth skin. The hitch in Jonny’s breath when he first makes contact is so, so satisfying, but it’s got nothing on the actual _whine_ from Jonny when Pat lets his tongue slip out to touch the skin he’s sucking on. It’s a rush to know he isn’t the only one getting off on this, and suddenly Pat wants nothing more than to hear what other sounds he can get Jonny to make in the middle of the locker room.

Pat tightens his hand in Jonny’s hair, crossing the line from guiding to pulling. Jonny’s silent in response, except his whole body tenses, like he’s trying not to lunge—away? Closer? To punch Pat in the mouth? Pat doesn’t really care, just scrapes his teeth across Jonny’s neck and then tries to suck more skin between his lips to widen the mark he’s making. Jonny lets out another sound, barely more than a breath. Pat feels him relax, and then starts as Jonny’s hands slip up from where they’re resting. Jonny catches himself, holding steady before he falls into Pat’s chest, but not before he gets a thumb pressed against the head of Pat’s cock where it’s swollen and trapped in his pants, and _shit,_ that noise wasn’t even Jonny’s.

That little bit of pressure, or maybe more knowing that Jonny knows perfectly well that he’s pressing up against Pat’s erection, makes Pat’s head spin. His mouth loosens a little on Jonny’s neck, slick with spit. He can’t stop his tongue from slipping out and laving up from the mark he’s left to the bottom of Jonny’s ear. Jonny’s breath hitches, hard, and that feels like victory.

And, god, god, Pat knows that this is just a stupid fucking continuation of their complete inability to let the other guy have the upper hand, but he can’t even think about that. He feels stretched out between two points of contact, his mouth pressed to Jonny's warm, clean skin, and Jonny's thumb where it’s rubbing steady, short strokes across the head of his cock. He’s never been this turned on in his life, not without being able to _do_ something about it, and that’s enough to push him close to the edge from nothing but Jonny's thick earlobe under his tongue and a thumb on his dick.

He has to break off and breathe from the intensity of it, a whispered _fuck_ dropping the inch from his lips to Jonny's ear, and Jonny must take that as him being done. He pulls back, and Pat reluctantly drops his hand from Jonny’s hair as Jonny lets both of his drop away from Pat’s legs (but not without pressing his thumb in once more, hard enough to make Pat twitch, the bastard).

There’s definitely some cat-calling in the background (and Kenny Chesney, they _would_ be doing this to Duncs’ fucking playlist), replete with “get a room, losers”, but Pat hears Jonny’s low laugh over it. Pat relaxes and grins back, jutting his chin up. It’s just a game, after all, inopportune erections (and gropings, what the hell) aside.

“You’re gonna have that one for a _week_ , man, it’s a beauty,” he chirps, knocking a knee into Jonny’s arm and sitting up straight.

“Yeah, well,” Jonny says, low enough to keep it between them. His eyes go sharp as he drops his gaze pointedly. “Don’t think I was the only one getting something out of it.”

Pat kicks him in the hip for that. Jonny stands up, pulling the towel he had under his knees up with him, making it impossible to tell if he’s packing, too, the bastard. Pat definitely doesn’t watch as he crosses back to his stall, because he’d like to actually walk without impediment in the near future, and Jonny's ass has always done it for him. He just—hadn’t realized that it went beyond that. It turns out getting repeated opportunities to make Jonny squirm (or to get manhandled by him and held down in return) is something Pat’s not looking forward to giving up any time soon.

Well, fuck.

 

~

 

That’s the beginning of the end, as far as the rules of the game are concerned.

 

~

 

The first time it happens in private is after the second game in a road-trip back-to-back. Pat was stupid enough to let Jonny challenge him over the number of shots _without_ a qualifier for actual goals scored, which left him with two goals to Jonny’s zero but only four shots to Jonny’s six. There’s no opportunity to bitch about the terms at the rink, though—between his post-game interview and everyone wanting to get back to the hotel to crash as quickly as possible, Pat’s not even sure Jonny’s going to cash in tonight. He’s achy from straining his back the game before, and tired enough that he doesn’t even bother Jonny about it, just heads straight up to his room once the bus drops them at the hotel.

He’s halfway out of his suit before he processes that Jonny’s followed him in. The yelp he lets out when he notices Jonny leaning by the door, arms crossed, is something less than dignified.

“What the hell, man?”

“Sorry,” Jonny says, not sounding sorry at all. “I thought you knew I was here.”

“Ugh,” Pat says, tossing his pants over the chair and digging in his suitcase for a t-shift to put on. “Why are you even here?”

“To mark my claim.”

Pat blinks. Jonny flushes.

“I mean—claim my mark,” he corrects, too loudly. “Uh. You know.”

“Alright, that’s _bullshit_ ,” Pat says feelingly. “I scored _two goals_.”

“Yeah, but we bet on shot attempts. I mean, we can’t start changing the terms afterwards, can we? Maybe next time you should suggest an amendment, if you’re so worried,” Jonny says condescendingly.

“Arg,” Pat says, because Tazer is the worst when he’s right _and_ an asshole, and Pat just wants to sleep. He tosses the t-shirt onto the bed and flops down onto his stomach beside it. “Fine. I’m not fucking moving, though. My back is killing me.”

The bed dips beside him as Jonny settles in. Pat flinches when his cold hand drops onto his lower back. “Pavel’s not on the trip, right?”

“Nope,” Pat says, muffled. He rubs his face tiredly against the comforter and then turns his head to peer at Jonny. “I’ll see him when we get home.”

Jonny doesn’t answer, just swings a leg over Pat’s thighs and settles lightly in place. It’s probably a sign of (a) how tired Pat is and (b) how used to Jonny being all over him that he doesn’t flinch, just twists a little and says, “Huh?”

“Just—relax,” Jonny says, and starts pressing his thumbs into the muscles along Pat’s spine.

“Ah—” Pat lets out a breath, and then collapses back into the bed. “Oh. That’s—fuck, yeah, like that. Yeah, a little harder— _fuck,_ right there—”

“Fuck’s sake,” Jonny mutters over him, pressing his palms flat against Pat’s shoulders and bearing down. “Shut _up_.”

Jesus, see if Pat ever tries to show his gratitude again. “Just trying to help, man,” he answers breathlessly, entirely because of Jonny’s weight crushing his ribcage into the bed. Entirely. Jonny leans a little harder and Pat lets out a _wuh_ and then manages to inhale enough to say, “I’ll shut up! Just—keep going.”

Jonny keeps him pinned for another couple seconds, but then eases up and starts in on Pat’s tense muscles. Pat holds up his end of the bargain as best he can, and keeps his commentary to the small grunts and occasional, maybe, possibly moans that he can’t hold in when Jonny hits an especially sore part.

It’s not like the usual massages he gets from Pavel—Jonny knows his shit but he’s no professional, and after a few minutes of working the hard knots deliberately, his hands lighten and slow. It’s—well, it _would_ be relaxing, Pat thinks, if he weren’t trying not to shift his hips too obviously into the bed. Jonny’s calluses scratch pleasantly across his shoulder blades and trail down to the waistband of his boxers before Jonny flattens his palms and slides them up along Pat’s ribs. Pat can’t help but shudder as Jonny's fingertips threaten the sensitive skin under his arms.

“Hey,” Jonny says, voice low as he runs his hands up over Pat’s shoulders and holds them still. Pat grinds into the mattress, just a little, as Jonny rubs a finger across the junction of his neck and shoulder, as if he’s outlining his plan.

“Gonna make your mark?” Pat manages in a rasp.

“If you want—I mean—”

“S’cool,” Pat answers, pressing his face into the sheets. “Do it man, you earned it.”

Jonny’s hands clench tight, and then move down over Pat’s shoulders to wrap around his biceps instead. He pulls Pat’s arms down a little and then braces himself on them before leaning over and pressing his lips to the back of Pat’s neck.

Not that it’s a _kiss_ or anything, because Jonny is just fulfilling his half of the bargain, sucking a hickey next to the knob of Pat’s spine. Pat tries to remind himself of this, but—god, he was already so turned on from the massage, wanting to rock down into the bed until he comes that he can’t help the groan he lets out. Jonny sucks harder at that, and he drops until he’s sitting more firmly on Pat. The additional weight presses Pat’s cock between his hip and the mattress, _fuck,_ Pat’s got to grind down hard. Jonny grips tight around his arms and then bites, teeth sinking in the tender skin of Pat’s neck.

“Fuck,” Pat groans, dick leaping. “Fuck, you, don’t—”

Jonny pulls back, staying close for Pat to feel his breath, short, cool puffs across the spit-slicked patch of his neck. Pat stills his hips and holds his own breath.

“Sorry, there’s—teeth marks.”

“What?” Pat gasps out.

“Not part of the deal,” Jonny says, sounding apologetic.

“Whatever,” Pat says, flexing his arms under Jonny’s grip experimentally. He needs one of two things right now: for Jonny to just, fuck, get his mouth back on him and let Pat get _off_ so they can move on and pretend this never happened, or for Jonny to _get_ off of Pat and out of here so Pat can roll over and get the approximately three hard jerks of his cock in he needs to come. “Could you—” Pat starts, not sure how the sentence will end, but Jonny interrupts him.

“Sorry, yeah,” he says, rolling off and climbing off the bed. “I’ll let you, uh, uh, sleep.”

The door barely clicks closed before Pat draws his knees up under him, shoves his hand down his boxers, bites down on the pillow and pulls himself off in fifteen seconds. It’s not _dignified_ , but then, nothing about this competition is.

 

~

 

Given that it keeps being Pat whose erection makes appearances at their settlement parties, it’s a little surprising that Jonny's the first one to come in his pants over it. He’d generally been doing such a better job than Pat at keeping his dick out of the game; Pat figures he probably got sloppy with his success and let his guard down. That, or he’s actually an exhibitionist, because:

“Stop _fighting_ , jerkface, that’s against the rules,” Pat bitches. They’re in the gym at the IceHouse, on the wrestling mats after Pat’s beaten Jonny’s ten-mile time on the stationary bike. Jonny may have strength on his side, but fuck yeah, Pat’s conditioning is the bomb. They’re totally gross and sweaty, because Pat insisted on making good on his win right away, and Shawzy, Bollig, and Saader are laughing at them in-between reps over by the free-weights.

When Jonny finally stops struggling, Pat’s on top and Jonny’s got his legs viced around Pat’s waist, so Pat just goes with that. He’s not trying to go anywhere, so if Jonny wants to invite his own doom, Pat’s cool with that. He shoves Jonny down the rest of the way and drops against Jonny’s bare chest, considering his neck for a moment. There’s still a faded bruise in Pat’s favourite spot by his moles, so he squirms down a little until his mouth is level with Jonny’s collarbone. Gotta share the love, he figures. Pat spreads one hand across Jonny’s sweaty chest, middle finger swiping Jonny’s nipple—and, _oh_. Pat's mouth curves into a smile, because _that_ sound was definitely a good one. Jonny drops his legs from around Pat, like that’s gonna stop Pat from feeling his dick swell against Pat’s hip.

“Gaaaaaay,” Shawzy calls from the squat rack. “So—umf,” he gets cut off with a slap, probably Bollig’s hand across his mouth.

Pat ignores him and starts in on Jonny, letting his fingers trace Jonny's hard nipple before he latches on to Jonny's collarbone. It’s not the best hickey Pat’s ever given, but he’s a little distracted by how Jonny's trembling underneath him, going still and then twitching every time Pat’s fingers brush just right. Pat shifts, under the guise of better getting his weight off Jonny, but it’s not exactly an accident that when Pat settles Jonny's erection is pressed firmly into the curve of his hip bone.

“Pat, I,” Jonny grits out, hand flying up to pull at Pat’s where he’s now rubbing his thumb steadily across Jonny's tight nipple. Pat doesn’t let Jonny pull him off, instead he pinches tight, and Jonny lets out the _hottest fucking sound_ Patrick Kane has ever heard. After that, well—it’s only reasonable that he’d pull off Jonny's collarbone and curve down until he can get his mouth on Jonny's other nipple and suck. That’s pretty much the same thing as a hickey, anyway, Pat reasons.

Jonny’s spare hand slaps against the mat beside them. Pat bears down and bares his teeth and feels Jonny’s groan all through his body as he flexes up into Pat, pressing hard.

“Did you just?”

Jon’s thin shorts and Pat’s leggings don’t do much to hide the wet warmth spreading between them, so the question’s a little unnecessary. Pat pushes himself up on his hands, looks down at Jonny’s closed eyes and red cheeks and rapidly rising and falling chest, and grins.

“Checkmate,” Pat crows, jumping back when Jonny growls and starts reaching for him. “Nope, I definitely won that round.”

“Ugh,” Jonny says, sounding disgusted as he sits up and draws up his knees. “For fuck’s sake, we’re not—that’s not the fucking competition.”

“Spoken like a true loser.”

Jonny narrows his eyes.

Pat smirks.

 

~

 

It’s not like Pat really thought it through, but it’s possible he should have known better than to call Jonathan Toews a loser to his face.

 

~

 

They’re over at Saader’s with Shawzy and Bollig and Antti, about four beers each and twenty rounds of Smash in when Pat pulls out the Yoshi. He’s a brutal Ness most of the time, but when everybody’s getting good and tipsy, Pat loves to be Blue Yoshi and stand on the edge of the Pokemon level and egg everybody into fury. It’s especially fucking hilarious because Tazer plays Fox, and nobody falls faster than Fox when egged. Jonny _hates it_. It’s amazing.

“I’m going to fucking _destroy you,_ ” Jonny says after Pat eggs him for the fourth time in the game. Shawzy and Antti aren’t even bothering to touch Pat’s Yoshi anymore, are just howling with it as they try and distract Jonny enough let Pat get him again.

“Dude, I’m just lying here, doing my thing,” Pat says. He is. Lying there—his head’s actually in Jonny’s lap, because he’s tired (and okay, he’d had some vague plans to try and get ahead of Jonny on this new competition, but mostly he just wanted to be lying down and it’s not that big a couch), and it’s a sign of how much Jonny can’t win unfairly that he’s holding his controller out of Pat’s face so Pat can still see the screen.

“FUCK,” Jonny yells, dying for the fifth and last time, his egged Fox dropping like a stone off the helicopter pad. He throws his controller across the room to Saader, who ducks fast.

“TAZER RULE,” yells everybody but Antti, who hasn’t seen it happen before.

“Fuck you all,” Tazer says, pissed. He falls back into the couch.

“Tazer rule?” asks Antti.

“You throw a controller, you don’t get to rotate back in for three rounds,” Pat explains, dying fast now that Shawzy’s stopped ignoring him. “Fuck you, Pikachu.”

He lasts longer Antti, at least, so he plays the next round with the victorious Shawzy, Bollig and Saader, switching back to Ness. He sort of expects Jonny to head to the kitchen for another round, but he stays put, and a couple minutes into the round he—slides his hand into Pat’s hair?

“Wha-?” Pat says, narrowly avoiding Bollig’s Falcon Punch in his distraction.

Jonny doesn’t answer, just rubs his fingers across Pat’s scalp.

“Uh,” Pat says, but then Jonny does it again, this time with his nails, and Pat shivers. “O-okay then,” Pat mutters, going back to the game.

Pat loses. Pat loses _terribly_. Jonny doesn’t move his hand away from Pat’s head, he just moves it all over, scraping his nails and pressing his thumbs and drawing the tips of his fingers lightly around the soft skin behind Pat’s ears. It’s horrible and distracting and absolutely the best Pat’s ever felt outside of getting his actual dick in someone. When Jonny tugs on the curls near the base of his neck, Pat pulls up both feet to try and hide his boner, but his accidental moan when Jonny drags his thumb across the shell of his ear probably makes that pointless. Antti’s definitely giving him wide-eyed looks from his perch at the other end of the couch, but Pat’s too busy trying not to lose all five lives before anyone else has lost two to try and play it off.

Once he’s dead, he tosses the controller (gently, there are _limits,_ Jonny) to Antti and bites his lip and lies there, still and hoping that now that Jonny’s accomplished his objective of making Pat lose the game, he’ll stop. That’s clearly stupid, though, because Pat’s pretty sure Smash Bros. is _not_ what Jonny’s trying to make him lose.

Pat lasts through the rest of the match. When Jonny brings his other hand into play and slides two fingers down the side of Pat’s neck, he jumps up and scurries around the couch and says “bathroom break bye” and runs.

Jerking off in Saader’s bathroom is definitely the fastest, most elegant, and all around most fun way to deal with this, so Pat does it without feeling guilty. No fucking way is he going back to the living room with a boner to sit anywhere near Jonny if he’s on a mission. So he does his business and washes up and when he comes out and walks straight into Jonny, he almost jumps out of his skin.

“Holy fuck, man,” he says weakly, clutching his chest. “Make some noise next time or something.”

Jonny just smirks at him.

“What?” Pat asks, suspicious.

“I win,” Jonny says smugly.

“What? You— _no you didn’t_ ,” Pat hisses. “I didn’t even lose it on the couch.”

“Couch, bathroom, whatever,” Jonny says, waving a hand condescendingly. “I still win.”

“I was taking a piss.”

“Some piss.”

“That was a lot of beer!”

“I could fucking _hear_ you, Patrick,” Jonny says, unimpressed.

“You fucking could not.”

“Oh, oh, fuck, yeah,” Jonny says, deadpan. Pat blushes. “Like I said, some piss.”

“Whatever, man,” Pat says out loud. What he thinks is: it is fucking _on_.

 

~

 

“God damn, Jonny,” Pat says in Jonny’s ear, finding him at the bar. “When you stripped Richards in the second—fucking beaut, man.”

“Yeah, right?” Jonny says, grinning wide as he hooks an arm around Pat’s neck and hauls him in. “Good finish on your goal, babe. And if Steeger had gotten his stick down in the third, that would’ve been an insane assist.”

Pat laughs and headbutts Jonny. “Story of my fucking life. C’mon, let’s water the boys.”

They disentangle to carry the latest pitchers back to the table, and Pat makes Seabs and Duncs get up so that he and Jonny can slide into the corner, Jonny on the inside because he likes to sprawl into it and survey his domain.

They’re still in gameday suits, jackets discarded and ties gone and buttons undone, and the conversation is boisterous and full of chirping about the tight, satisfying game against the Kings in LA.

“Three-two games, man,” Jonny says to the table. “Best score.”

“How come?” Shawzy asks.

“Winning one-goal games is more fun than a blowout,” Jonny says.

“I dunno, six-nothing has a nice ring to it,” Sharpy says, grinning.

“Why not two-one? Or four-three?” Saader asks.

“Good balance between not being too tight in the neutral zone and not being too wide-open,” Jonny explains. “Everyone’s got some room to play but it’s not just wild back and forth.”

“Also,” Pat adds, “we won the last Cup on a three-two game.”

“Also that,” Jonny says, grinning wide.

Pat smiles back helplessly until Seabs elbows him and shoves a beer in front of him. “You guys are disgusting.”

“We’re not even touching!” Jonny protests, holding his hands up like he needs to prove it. Which, Pat thinks, he probably does, given their recent track record.

“Speak for yourself, baby,” Pat says sleazily, putting his hand on the top of Jonny’s thigh and leaning in.

Jonny kicks him in the ankle, but doesn’t make Pat move his hand, just leans into the table under the pretense of reaching for a pitcher. Huh. Pat lets his nails catch on the seam of Jonny’s pants, and turns back to the boys. Sharpy’s got his head in his hands, shoulders shaking, while Saader pats him soothingly on the back. Shawzy’s leaned back in the booth, grinning manically, and Seabs and Duncs are holding a whispered conversation about—fuckwits, or something, Pat can’t really hear.

“What?” Pat slides his hand up until the back of it’s pressed against the warm bulge of Jonny’s dick.

“Oh my god,” Sharpy says, lifting his head and wiping away the tears. “This is worth all the gross, kids.”

“It’s really gross, though,” Seabs adds thoughtfully. “I feel like lines are being crossed.”

“Whose lines?” Pat asks, confused. Jonny kicks him in the ankle again and hunches over a little when Pat turns his hand to cup him properly. He’s all folded up in his pants, it’s gotta be kind of uncomfortable.

“Apparently not yours,” Duncs mutters. “Just don’t get arrested for public indecency, okay?”

“We would _not_ ,” Pat protests, working on Jonny’s fly. Just so he can like, unbutton him and help him straighten out a little. Seriously, folded over erections are not fun.

“You—you know what,” Sharpy says. “Let’s just not. I’d rather see this through.”

“Definitely gay,” says Shawzy. “If you want to watch.”

Saader interrupts, sounding a little desperate as he blurts out, “So we should definitely go back to ties after ten minute four-on-four, right?”

Attaboy, Saader, Pat thinks as even Jonny, pressed tight against Pat’s side, leaps in with a loudly voiced opinion. He finally gets Jonny’s pants undone enough to straighten his dick out along his hip. When Pat’s fingers accidentally slip through the fly of Jonny’s boxers to catch skin, Jonny cuts himself off mid-argument.

“What about international shootout rules?” Pat jumps into the sudden silence, fingers still on Jonny’s hardening dick. “Repeat shooters would make it less random, right?”

“Says the hotshot on a season-long drought,” scoffs Sharpy, the asshole. Pat curls his fingers into the gap and rubs against the smooth, blood-hot skin of Jonny’s dick. Jonny makes a tiny, tiny noise, and Pat grins.

“You alright, babe?” he says quietly, tilting his head towards Jonny where he’s leaning over the table.

“Motherfucker,” Jonny grits out. Pat starts up a small, squeezing stroke, as much as he can manage without moving his elbow and broadcasting what he’s doing under the table. By the way Seabs has almost edged Duncs off the bench, however, Pat’s thinking there’s not much mystery here. Pat stops stroking, watching Jonny’s eyes flutter shut. His neck has gone all flushed, and Pat really regrets he can’t lick it in the bar.

“Wanna forfeit?” Pat asks.

“Fuck you,” Jonny grits, and then shivers as Pat starts moving his hand again.

“I’m happy to watch you go off in your pants, man,” Pat says as low as he can manage. “But you’re the one who has to walk out of here.”

Jonny breathes out through his teeth, and then slides a hand down and around Pat’s wrist, pushing it away. He’s totally the least subtle ever as he does himself back up and makes them all get up so he can slide to the end of the bench and head for the washroom. Pat smiles sunnily at the table and says, “gotta collect, gentlemen” before following Jonny to the back.

He sticks his foot in the door of the single washroom and pushes his way in despite Jonny’s verbal protests.

“I’m not having you claim I didn’t win this round,” Pat says, locking the door and leaning against it. “Not that I’d believe you came in here to like, splash cold water on your dick, but still.”

Jonny’s mouth flattens, but Pat knows what Jonny looks like when he’s pissed, and this isn’t it. The flush in his cheeks is all arousal. Pat smirks.

“Well?”

“Fine.”

Jonny’s bitchy eye-roll is ruined by how stumbles as he steps back against the far wall, but Pat stops laughing pretty quick to watch him pop open his fly and drag the zipper down. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, on one hand, but on the other, Pat’s never seen anything quite like _this_. Jonny doesn’t look away from him, wide brown eyes fixed on Pat as Pat’s gaze slips from Jonny’s soft, open mouth to the twist of his hand around his dick. Pat wets his lips.

“Like what you see, huh?” Jonny says, flexing his hips forward, shoulders planted against the wall.

“You’re gonna get come on your shirt,” Pat says, non-sequitur, stepping across the room to stand within arm’s reach. Jonny’s hand stops stroking on his dick, thumb pushing the foreskin up over the head, rubbing in. Pat swallows and reaches out, close enough to see the twitch of Jonny’s dick in his grasp, but Pat just catches the edge of Jonny’s dress shirt and starts in on the buttons.

Jonny starts fisting himself again as Pat works his way up, breath hitching when Pat’s fingers brush over his collarbone to push the unbuttoned shirt open. There’s a faded bruise along the left arch of the bone, and Pat presses his fingers into it.

“Dunno why you never wear undershirts,” Pat says huskily, letting his other hand rest on Jonny’s chest, fingers tracing around a nipple. “Maybe you like showing these off.” He flicks lightly, and then drags the pad of his thumb across the hardened nub.

“Fuck,” Jonny says, eyes finally falling shut as he shudders and presses the head of his dick into his own stomach, come pulsing out to drip down his abs.

“Damn,” Pat says. He steps back before he does something stupid, like run his fingers—or his tongue—through the mess.

Jonny opens his eyes and leans down to swipe some toilet paper from the dispenser next to him. Pat’s so engrossed in watching him wipe down his muscled stomach he has to say “huh?” when Jonny speaks.

“I asked if you were going to walk out of here with that,” Jonny says, gesturing at Pat’s crotch.

“Uh,” says Pat, looking down at the distended line of his pants.

“I bet you aren’t,” Jonny says, low and challenging. “I bet you’re gonna have to get off right now.”

Pat licks his lips, tilts his head. “Oh yeah? Gonna mark me up if I do?”

“You bet,” says Jonny, tucking himself back into his boxers but leaving his fly splayed open, shirt unbuttoned. Pat can see a slick streak where Jonny missed cleaning himself off. “High up, so everyone knows you lost in here.”

“Too,” Pat says. It’s an admission, and Jonny grins wide.

“C’mon babe,” he says. “Let’s see it.”

Pat swallows, finds that his fingers are trembling a little as he undoes his fly and pulls out his dick. He’s cut, unlike Jonny, and has to go easier without any lube to keep the friction light. It doesn’t fucking matter, though. Jonny steps up against Pat’s left side and slides a hand down Pat’s back until he reaches the loosened waistband of Pat’s pants. He bunches up Pat’s shirt so he can press his fingers into the dimples above Pat’s ass. Pat has to hold his hand still as Jonny bends down enough to press his mouth to Pat’s neck.

“Oh fuck,” Pat breathes out, hips jerking forward instinctively as Jonny starts sucking. It should be familiar enough by now, it shouldn’t drag all the air from Pat’s lungs and push heat through his skin, but he’s never had his cock in his hand when Jonny’s done it before.

He’s dizzy with it, getting his other hand on his balls to roll them tight between his fingers, making firm, short strokes with his fist. Jonny slides his fingers down Pat’s boxers along the top of his ass, pinky finger pressing just between his cheeks, and Pat jerks against him.

“Oh god, I’m gonna,” he grits out, letting go of his balls and covering the head of his dick and filling up the palm of his hand with come, heart pumping. Jonny doesn’t let up, increases the suction on the side of Pat’s neck until it hurts. Pat whimpers. The _pop_ as Jonny pulls back makes Pat’s dick pulse, one last time.

He sags into Jonny’s chest. Jonny pulls his arm out of Pat’s boxers to wrap around his hip and hold on.

“Stalemate, huh?” Pat manages, catching his breath.

“You’re the one with the hickey,” Jonny says, touching it lightly with a finger before pulling away.

“You’re the one who had to leave the table with an _emergency boner_ ,” Pat scoffs, awkwardly tucking himself back in with one hand. “Pretty sure that’s all anyone is going to remember.”

He doesn’t know why Jonny’s looking at him so smugly until he goes over to the sink to wash off his hands and spots the hickey in the mirror.

“Holy fuck, Tazer,” Pat says, hand flying up to his neck. “How did you _do_ that?”

“Suction,” Jonny says loftily. “It’s a thing.”

 _Gee-zus_ , Pat mouths, prodding at it. Usually they take some time to come in fully, but this one’s already blue in the middle and speckled blood-red around the edges, a wide slash placed so perfectly on his throat that no amount of collar popping or keeping his chin down will hide it.

“It’s kind of dark in there,” Jonny says, trying for conciliatory and missing like a Biznasty slapshot. “Maybe they won’t notice.”

 

~

 

They notice.

 

~

 

Things kind of cool off after that. Pat’s not sure if it’s adjusting to the shock of seeing each others’ dicks in action, or because the Hawks’ record takes something of a nosedive. Four losses in five games and not a goal for him or Tazer in that timespan has both of them too pissy to make stupid bets. After the fifth game, they end up drinking the two beers in the hotel mini fridge in Pat’s room, talking in endless circles about mental slumps versus statistical odds.

“We should bet on it,” Jonny says, staring up at the ceiling morosely from his prone position on the floor.

“Over the scoring drought?” Pat asks.

“Yeah. Might get our asses in gear.”

“I’ll get your ass in gear,” Pat says, leaning over the edge of the bed and leering at Jonny.

“Well,” Jonny says.

Pat raises his eyebrows. “Well what?”

“I mean, we could.”

“Gotta finish a sentence someday, Jonathan.”

“Put, uh, our asses on the line. If you want.”

“Woah,” Pat says. “That’s—uh. Pretty far down the gay line, man.”

“So?” Jonny frowns. “I know you’ve done it.”

He has, and told Jonny about the first time in way too much drunken detail, embarrassingly. Maybe the second time, too, but that one had gone a lot better so it was a less embarrassing tale all around.

“But _you_ haven’t!”

“Uh.”

Pat stares. “You mean, with a girl?”

“No,” Jonny says, shortly. “With guys.”

“Guys. Like, plural.”

“Is that such a big surprise?”

“You turned me down when we were rookies!”

“Wow, Patrick,” Jonny says, dry. “Just cause I’m not into your dick doesn’t mean I can’t be into any. And what do you think I was talking about when I told you I’d been seeing Dan for the summer?”

“You dated Dan?” Pat gapes at Jonny, ignoring the bit about Jonny not being into his dick, because it’s clearly fucking false. “I thought you meant, like, that you _saw_ him. With, you know, your eyes.”

“What the fuck, Kaner.”

“I—shit. Okay, fine, you’re into dicks. In your ass or whatever. So sorry for not reading between the lines.”

Pat flops back onto the bed, a little stunned. That—he guesses it sort of makes sense. It’s not like Jonny hasn’t obviously been into Pat’s mouth on him. It just sort of _happened_ and he hasn’t spent a lot of time wondering what Jonny’s motivations are beyond “can’t lose to Patrick Kane”. Pat hasn’t spent a lot of time wondering at his _own_ motivations, either, beyond Jonny being hot as shit and touching him being a solid way to spend twenty minutes, especially if it comes with the satisfaction of making Jonny feel good, too.

“Okay,” he hears himself saying.

“Okay?”

“I’ll take that bet,” Pat says, impulsive. “First to score, first to get his dick in the other guy’s ass.”

“And after that?” Jonny asks.

Pat rolls back over and looks at the uncertain expression on Jonny’s face.

“One bet at a time, Tazer.”

 

~

 

“Oh man,” Pat says, leaning drunkenly into Steeger, who helpfully wraps an arm around his shoulders to hold him up. “You will never believe what I found out the other day.”

“What?” Abby asks, pulling the empty bottle out of Pat’s hand and replacing it with a full one, because she is the best at all the things, especially hosting house parties.

“Jonny’s into _dudes,_ ” he whispers loudly. Which, fuck, means he wasn’t whispering. He looks around, a little dizzy, to see who else might have heard.

“Uh,” says Crow. Pat whips his head to the left. He hadn’t even known Corey was standing there, the sneaky goaltending motherfucker. “I think we noticed?”

“What!” Pat says, beer tipping precariously. “ _When_? Cause I sure didn’t.”

Steeger shoves him upright and peers into Pat’s eyes. “Are you alright dude? Are you, like, mixing shit with the booze?”

“What the fuck, it’s mid-season.” Pat frowns. “So you didn’t know?”

“Noooo,” Steeger says slowly, glancing over at Abby. “I definitely knew.”

“Huh,” says Pat. Maybe he really hadn’t been paying close enough attention to Jonny’s preferences. It’s not like Steeger’s been around much these last few years.

Steeger and Crow exchange glances and make some loud, repetitive statements about needing more drinks, despite both holding half-full bottles, and leave Pat standing alone with Abby.

“Abby,” Pat says after a moment.

“Patrick,” Abby says solemnly, mouth twitching.

“I have a question for you.”

“Shoot, Peekaboo.”

“D’you think…” Pat trails off, picking at the label on his beer.

“Somebody has to,” Abby says with a smile.

“I mean,” Pat stumbles, and then sighs. “Could you like, imagine a world where Jonny and I are like, you know.”

She raises both eyebrows.

“Dating-or-something?” Pat finishes in a rush. “I know it sounds crazy, but—” he breaks off, kind of overwhelmed. He’s too fucking drunk for this conversation, that much he’s sure of. Everything else is too confusing for words.

Abby gently takes the beer out of his hand, puts her other hand on his elbow, and suggests that Pat take a nap in one of their zillion guest rooms.

“I like naps,” Pat agrees, following her upstairs. If Abby doesn’t have any answers, maybe Sharpy will in the morning.

 

~

 

In the morning, it doesn’t seem like a good question to ask Sharpy. Pat slinks out before breakfast and hopes Abby doesn’t repeat his rambling to anyone.

 

~

 

Jonny wins the fucking bet. The fucking fucking bet. Fuck.

It’s not like the odds weren’t reasonably in Pat’s favour, since he’s been scoring goals at a faster pace than Tazer all season. Pat should have known better than to add incentive to Jonny and his indefatigable approach to bending the game of hockey to his will, because the goal Jonny scores is on a shorthanded breakaway. A shorthanded breakaway where he steps around Zdeno Chara and beats Tukka Rask glove-side. It’s the hottest thing Pat’s seen on ice since Bolly’s cup-winner. Probably hotter, since Bolly is great and all but kind of creepy to imagine fucking. Nice wife, though.

It’s also not, however, like Pat minds taking it, objectively speaking. It’s a good time for him, and Jonny’s, well. Pat’s into that whole situation, obviously. But he still lost the bet and that’s fucking annoying, because smug Tazer is not sexy Tazer. Pat figures he’ll just have to keep the guy in his place while still fulfilling the terms of the wager.

So it’s logical to show up at Jonny’s condo the next day, slippery and loose, and insist on being on top.

Jonny takes it pretty well, all told. Both of them know how to undress fast, but Jonny doesn’t usually do it while running down his hallway at the same time. Pat follows at a slightly less career-ending-injury-inducing pace, tossing the lube at Jonny and telling him to glove up and slick up while Pat strips.

Pat gets a little distracted from his sock situation, watching Jonny roll a condom on his cock and rub lube all over it. He’s all nicely proportioned in a way Pat’s always envied, smooth muscle and warm skin, and Pat’s dick is appreciating the tableau a whole lot. It’s even better watching the jump in Jonny’s abs as Pat slings a leg over his hips and grabs Jonny’s dick behind his back, rubbing the head in until it’s pressed up against Pat’s entrance.

“Gah,” Jonny says, eyes wide. Pat knocks his hands away when they reach out.

“Hold on, I’m concentrating,” Pat huffs, pushing Jonny in and sticking out his tongue at the initial stretch of it.

“Okay,” Jonny says tightly, hands fisted beside him. “Just—don’t stop.”

“Won’t,” Pat grunts, rocking his hips to get the angle, working Jonny in inch by inch. It’s a couple slow minutes of shifting and pressing, and then, _shit_ , Pat groans as he finally gets all the way down. Jonny’s cock is the perfect length for Pat to relax until his ass is flush with Jonny’s hips. He takes a moment to enjoy it, grinning at Jonny’s blown-black eyes and round, slack mouth.

“So,” Pat says, wiggling a little on Jonny’s dick. “I feel like we’ve reached the end of the road with the gay chicken thing.”

“What,” Jonny pants, shoving his hips up. Pat presses his hands into Jonny’s stomach and drops all his weight down, holding him still.

“Hold on a minute.”

“Hold on—what the fuck, my dick is in your ass and you want me to _hold on_?” Jonny’s voice gets awesomely high-pitched at the end of that, and maybe he has a point, but Pat’s been thinking and those thoughts should probably be said out loud.

“It’s important,” Pat insists.

“Ugh,” Jonny says, flattening his hands on the bed. “This isn’t gay chicken. This is just _gay_ , Patrick.”

“Yeah, _this_ is,” Pat agrees. “But like, everything before.”

“That wasn’t like that, either,” Jonny says, rolling his eyes. “It can’t be gay chicken if neither of us are actually chicken about being kind of gay.”

“That’s true,” Pat says thoughtfully. “But then, what was all that? With like, the hickies and the, the frottage and sneaky hand jobs or whatever.”

“Uh,” Jonny shrugs, red-faced. Which could just be the fact that he’s being really fucking patient right now. Pat’s a little impressed. “It was, I dunno, Pat. I just liked it? Touching you. Making you—making you feel good.”

“I thought you said you ‘weren’t into my dick’,” Patrick says.

“For fuck's sake, don’t make finger quotes at me when I’m fucking you.”

“I think I’m just sitting on your dick right now, actually.”

“Arg,” Jonny says, hiding his face behind his hands. “What do you want me to say? I’m not sorry I turned you down as rookies. I didn’t want to, like, fuck with the team dynamic for road handies. I still don’t, it’s too important.”

“Dude,” Pat says, poking Jonny in the stomach and then hissing when Jonny shoves up reflexively. “We’ve like, basically fucked in front of them. I think they’re cool with it.” Jonny’s dick twitches inside him, and Pat grins and says, “Oh man, I knew you were into that.”

“I’m into you,” Jonny says honestly, and then goes bright red.

“I could tell.” Pat lifts up a little and slides back down.

“You are such a fucking loser,” Jonny says, but he puts his hands on Pat’s thighs and holds on tight.

“Yeah, well,” Pat says, rocking his hips until it—yeah, fuck. “I liked it too, being able to,” he pushes his hands up Jonny’s chest, thumbs a nipple, “do this,” and leans over to slide his fingers into Jonny’s hair, “and this.” He licks his lips and stares down at Jonny’s wide eyes. “Can we keep doing this? All of it?”

Jonny stills under him for a moment, and then in a show of really awesome, totally hot strength, uses his grip on Pat’s thighs to roll them over and sling Pat’s legs up on his shoulders. Jonny’s cock slides half out, but when he gets his knees under him and pushes back in, the press against Pat’s prostate has him gasping. Whatever his doubts about Jonny’s past experience were before, Pat’s a fully-converted believer now.

“We can keep doing this,” Jonny says, folding Pat in half so he can lick the side of Pat’s neck. “But only if we make a new wager.”

“Ung,” Pat says, panting. He was kind of hoping they could fuck, and touch, and maybe cuddle without having to bet on something first, but that’s too many words when Jonny’s sucking a new hickey into his neck. “Yes, okay, whatever.”

Jonny lifts his head and wraps his arm around to grab Pat’s cock, fingers still wet with lube from slicking himself up. Pat whines and shifts until Jonny matches the stroke of his hand with the flex of his hips.

“God damn,” Pat groans. “What’s—what’s the fucking wager?”

“I get you to come first,” Jonny says, all short of breath and dilated pupils and flexing muscle, “and I get to pick where we go for our first date.”

“Oh fuck,” Pat says weakly. “Unfair. Head. Start.”

Jonny laughs, breath hitching. “Spoken like a true loser.”

“Nng,” Patrick says, toes flexing as Jonny rocks in and jerks him off and, and, _god fucking damn_. Pat comes all over Jonny’s hand and his own belly, cock jerking in Jonny’s firm, slick grip. Jonny lets go when Pat mewls at him, grabs him by the hips instead and fucks Pat in short, hard strokes until he comes too, turning his head to press his mouth to Pat’s calf. Pat watches as Jonny breathes hard, shuddering down from it, and thinks: this is the best that losing has ever felt.

“Seems we’re both winners here, babe,” Pat says, voice wrecked like he’s been swallowing Jonny’s dick. He pulls his legs off Jonny’s shoulders to wrap them around his waist, and tugs Jonny down until he collapses on Pat’s chest.

Jonny presses his open mouth to Pat’s shoulder, then his neck, and then pushes up enough to slide their mouths together in a panting kiss, before pulling back just enough murmur against Pat’s lips.

“Always better to win with you, anyway.”

 

~

 

It’s fair to say that’s the end of the end, as far as the rules of the competition are concerned. It’d be wrong, however, to say that Pat and Jonny are capable of being anything other than weird and competitive and, in Jonny’s case, an enormous exhibitionist. So while Pat’s really thrilled to be able to take Jonny home and lay him out on his bed and suck a hickey into the swell of his ass just for the heck of it, it’s not like he never bumps Jonny in line for a shooting drill and grins a dare at him anymore.

“Terms?” says Jonny, eyes fixed straight ahead like he’s completely focused on the drill. It’s the Blues' practice rink, away game tonight, so Pat has to pause and consider the alternatives.

“I don’t think there’s room left on his neck, Kaner,” Bollig says from behind Pat. “Not unless you want the reporters asking if he’s got a blood disorder again.”

“And if you fuck on the plane again, I’m gonna tell the flight attendant,” adds Shawzy.

“Sit farther away from the toilet next time,” Pat says, unimpressed and watching Jonny’s ears get even redder than normal.

“I _like_ that seat,” Shawzy whines.

“Well, there’s always the showers,” Pat says thoughtfully, ninety percent kidding. Well, seventy-five. Maybe at the IceHouse.

Jonny makes a pained noise and hip checks him. “Shut _up_ , Kaner.”

“Please do,” calls Hammer, before stepping up to take his turn.

“Please _don’t_ ,” Sharpy counters, slinging an arm around Jonny’s shoulders and giving him a helmet-noogie. “I promised Abby I’d film this for her.”

“ _That’s_ gay,” pronounces Shawzy.

Bollig punches him in the arm. “Abby’s a _woman_ , Mutt.”

“Would you all please shut up,” Jonny says, voice strangled as he struggles out from under Sharpy’s arm. “Forget it, Kaner. Focus on practice.” He finally escapes Sharpy’s death grip, skips ahead three spots in line and goes to take his shot. After Pat gets his turn, he loops around the ice to where Jonny’s standing.

“If I win—”

“Patrick, c’mon,” Jonny protests, starting to skate back to the line-up.

“—we go to Buffalo first. This summer.”

Jonny pauses, stick loose in his hands, and looks at him.

“Winnipeg second?”

Pat sticks out his tongue, but nods. Gotta make sacrifices for the team. “Other way round if you win.”

It’s not the same as watching Jonny flush with embarrassment and arousal, the way he does when Pat teases him in front of the guys, but Pat’s sure he’s going to remember the shy, pleased look that spreads across Jonny’s face for a long, long time.

“It’s on,” Jonny says, reaching out for a fist-bump and then skating back down the rink. “You’re gonna love Winnipeg, I swear.”

He gets a perfect five-hole on Crow.

Pat’s shot hits the crossbar.

It might have been what he was aiming for, all along.

 

~

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me and my love of hockey on [tumblr](http://demotu.tumblr.com), if that's your thing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] put your money where your mouth is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378798) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




End file.
